


we'll see the fruits of our labor (maybe not now, maybe lifetimes ahead)

by moonbeatblues



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: M/M, a bittersweet little fjorclay thing. just for vibes, as a treat, little a beaujes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:55:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23647321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonbeatblues/pseuds/moonbeatblues
Summary: They’ll do this again, in a few months. They’ll make the trip back to Nicodranas, have a big party, so everyone can see, so everyone can cry and hug and feel a part of one another again.For now, though, they kneel in the dirt. It needs to be planted quite deep, requires minutes of digging they spend in silence. Not especially ceremonious, perhaps, but then again, there is no priest. Or perhaps they are all the priests.Clarabelle braided flowers into Caduceus’s hair, earlier, in the kitchen. Tiny white sprays of petals, and now as Caduceus leans over their work they fall, one by one, like snow.“I think it’s ready.”(a wedding, kind of)
Relationships: Caduceus Clay/Fjord
Comments: 4
Kudos: 65





	we'll see the fruits of our labor (maybe not now, maybe lifetimes ahead)

**Author's Note:**

> based on the song bound by a thread by gaelynn lea-- soft fjorclay vibes all the way down
> 
> (listen i know junipers don't flower but. these are special. give me this)

“Hello, Fjord.”

Clarabelle doesn’t turn around, her ears just lift a little. Probably heard him coming all the way from the house, he thinks.

“Thank you. For being here, earlier.”

She doesn’t turn around at that, either, just shifts sideways a little.

(They’ll do this again, in a few months. They’ll make the trip back to Nicodranas, have a big party, so everyone can see, so everyone can cry and hug and feel a part of one another again.

For now, though, they kneel in the dirt. It needs to be planted quite deep, requires minutes of digging they spend in silence. Not especially ceremonious, perhaps, but then again, there is no priest. Or perhaps they are all the priests.

Clarabelle braided flowers into Caduceus’s hair, earlier, in the kitchen. Tiny white sprays of petals, and now as Caduceus leans over their work they fall, one by one, like snow.

“I think it’s ready.”

It’s meant to grow close to the ocean, accepts more unforgiving soil. Near the sea, they grow in tangled copses, together and apart again. He wonders what it will look like when it is cared for.

Caduceus’s hand closes over his, and then they unlace their fingers to let it fall. Clarabelle or Calliope have spells, he’s sure, to move earth, but they fill in the hole with their hands anyway. In the end, it’s a vehicle for them to return to the kitchen and kiss over the sink while they’re washing up. In the end, nothing is lost.)

“I’ve never seen Caduceus like he is around you. We only ever really had visitors, but even with all your friends it’s different. He’s happy. That’s worth a lot.”

He kneels next to her, almost exactly in the spot Caduceus had, even shifts his knees into the larger divots.

It’s unassuming, a little area of loose, fertile soil set apart behind the house. A little ways away, he can see Cornelius and Constance’s wedding plant, a low bush with dark, dense leaves. It’s not the season for it, now, but he’s seen it bloom all over with big white flowers, like stars.

“I’ve seen your plant before, you know.”

Clarabelle is still looking at the area over the seed. Her eyebrows draw together just so. Not angry, just aware.

“Before I found the Menagerie, I spent a little time on the coast. I even sailed, for a little.”

“Didn’t you know it was the wrong way? I mean, I know they have the same name, but you knew where the Stones lived, right?”

“I wanted to see her lighthouse. And, well, you know better than anyone that the Mother watches over the seas, too.”

She digs her fingertips into the dirt and compresses a handful, lets it fall again.

“I know you know what they’re called. The plants.”

“Yeah. I do.”

(There’s a snap— Jester yelps, and runs for the base of the tree, but before she even reaches out, Beau’s landed, clutching something in the hand not touched lightly to the ground.

It’s almost gratuitous, how she does that.

Jester pouts, arms still outstretched, until Beau leans into them with a stifled grin. She opens her free hand, and in it Fjord can see a sprig of berries, pale blue and purple.

“Well, at least I found a snack.”

“Oh,” Fjord says, “Yeah, no. Don’t eat those unless you wanna be throwing up all night. Maybe even until the next night, too, trust me.”

“What’s the point of making ‘em at all, then? Thought plants want things to eat the seeds, so they travel further.”

Fjord squints. He forgets, sometimes, how Beau just _knows_ things.

“Yeah, well. Sometimes they only want a few things to eat them. It’s about safeguarding.”

( _Ending up in someone’s stomach can be a parent’s protection,_ Caduceus says, head tilted, while Fjord leans up to pick another fruit. _If you think about the parent choosing the stomach. Even a stomach can be safe, if you choose right._ )

Caduceus is a little ways away, looking out over the water. Up the coast, he can see the faint outline of the lighthouse, and warmth winds tight in his chest where there used to be cold. He thinks of a seed of light, where the orb used to be— trusted, by the Mother, that it would be safe in him, and then he thinks of the flowering bush behind the Clay house, what Calliope had told him about their parents.

“Can I see those?”

Beau brushes little petals from her vestments after handing them over. “I thought trees like this didn’t flower.”

Fjord blinks. “They don’t, usually. Only once a century. That’s why they call ‘em century plants.”

He’s about to put the berries in his pack, and then thinks better and tucks them into the inner lining of his armor, the little pocket under the breastplate. _It’s funny,_ he thinks, _how things become so auspicious, all at once_. Beau brushes the petals off and they scatter limply to the ground, petals Fjord has only seen once before. Ones he might never see again.)

The berries during a bloom year aren’t poisonous. He’d given the other ones to Constance, and back at the house they’re drying in the windowsill that gets the most sun, in a little glass bowl.

“You won’t get to see it flower.”

It’s not a question.

“No.”

Clarabelle says nothing, and that, in a way, is the question.

“I wanted him to have something. After. They live a long time, you know, there aren’t any specimens the Soul’s found that died naturally since the Calamity. No one knows how long they live. If they even die on their own.”

“Nothing dies alone, Fjord.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“No,” Clarabelle says, and dusts off her pants. “But it’s good to remember, all the same.”

She stands, and offers a hand down to Fjord. The sun through the reviving trees comes through in odd little pockets, little spots of light and shadow catching the wide, frayed brim of the straw hat she’s got on.

“Come on, I’m sure Mom’s got dinner ready. It’s about time someone fed you two proper, you always come home looking like tumbleweeds.”

_Home_ , he thinks, squinting in the sun, and takes her hand.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm @seafleece on tumblr!! come say hi!


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